


come to take you home

by bonafake



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dreams, M/M, Magical Realism, Violence Against Toasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonafake/pseuds/bonafake
Summary: Tyson opens his eyes. He feels like a live wire. Like he’s been splayed open, skin and bone covered in tingling exposed nerves.





	come to take you home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [savedby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedby/gifts).



> SECOND ROUND IS A GO. you have no idea how excited i was when i got this assignment. like. so. excited. hope you enjoy, savedby! comments are much loved! title from solsbury hill by peter gabriel.
> 
> please go away if you know anyone or are anyone in this fictional piece of hockey fiction.
> 
> notes: tyson barrie/gabriel landeskog, tyson barrie/happiness, alternate universe - soulmates, dreams, the persistence of memory, pervasive emotion, fluff.

1.

 

“Think of it-” his mom stops. She straightens in the wooden kitchen chair. He is almost a full foot taller than her. “An early signing bonus.”

“Mom-”

“Stop,” she says. “I wanted to.”

Tyson looks down. Bauer, clean white laces. Silver blades gleaming against the linoleum kitchen counter. The tag reads a size and a half too large. “Thank you,” he says, hushed.

His mom smiles tightly. “You’re welcome, kiddo.”

 

2.

 

The blue around him is brighter than the sky, harsh and beating down, like sun, like waves. Pulsing, a heartbeat. His own heartbeat, sharp and brutal in his chest. Waiting. Hesitating.

Tyson opens his eyes. He feels like a live wire. Like he’s been splayed open, skin and bone covered in tingling exposed nerves. The bed sheets are cool cotton, soft against his skin. His eyelashes are wet.

 

3.

 

Landeskog’s eyes are bright blue from where he stands at the boards. The air around him is cold, sharp, and Tyson still hasn't grown into the skates. He can feel their edges digging into the soft ice of Barclays. Like slush, losing, heavy in his stomach. It’s almost like not knowing where he stands, sinks into the ground.

“Barrie,” says Landeskog.

“Landeskog,” he says. A careful nod, neck, voice, tightly controlled. It’s like spending money, talking. He does it a lot, but that doesn't mean he always likes it.

 

4.

 

The bar is crowded, and Gabe is laughing, glowing smile on his face. His smile always glows, in the right light.

(They are all the right light. Gabe’s smile always glows.)

Mack hits his shoulder, hand too warm in the dark room. “Yikes,” he says.

“Shut up,” Tyson mutters. Pushes at Nate’s hand. Nate doesn't let go, and Tyson doesn't make him.

 

5.

 

He wakes up, gasping, like the body is still pressing down on him, warm, too warm. Eyes, smiling at him, boring through the holes of his skull, his brains. Every neuron aware of the shape of blue, the imprint. He’s read somewhere, that you can feel every divot of their fingerprint like your own.

Tyson has never been that lucky. Tyson has held onto these bright blue eyes and he thinks that maybe, he is luckier, with this.

The fan has shut off in the middle of the night. The hotel room is too hot, even in the dead of winter.

 

6.

 

He feels Landy’s hand in his like a heartbeat. “Oh,” Tyson says. “Oh.”

Landy looks up at him, sudden. “We-”

“Yeah,” Tyson says. “We did.”

Tyson can feel the wetness in his eyes. Sticking to his lashes. He closes them, and the only thing around him is bright blue.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” says Gabe.

 

7.

 

He wakes up, and the bed is warm. The outline of a body, heavy with muscle, hockey, still in the sheets. Scent of coffee permeating the room. Tyson bites down on a smile, inside of his lip tender, raw. Like he’s been exposed, opened. He makes his way down the stairs.

Gabe is singing ABBA and occupied by his ongoing war with the toaster. He doesn’t hear Tyson come down. His poptart is smoking. Tyson can-

It almost feels like he knows that Gabe is going to-

Shit.

“Don't,” he says.

Gabe drops the fork onto the counter. The ABBA stops. “The toaster’s still plugged in,” Tyson adds. Voice softening. Sounds melting like chocolate in his mouth.

“Oh,” Gabe says. His lips look soft in the low light of the morning. Glowing. Like an everything.

Tyson leans in. He closes his eyes. He knows that Gabe is leaning towards him, too.

 

8.

 

The passes are right on the tape. All he can hear, feel, is the slick, rough sound of the puck sliding across ice. The gleam of skate blades as he presses forward. Staples. Rogers. Air Canada. Prudential.

Tyson shoots. It never goes in. He chews on his mouthguard, taste sour in the back of his mouth. Stale gatorade, spit, wet on the tip of his tongue. Someone is playing the Romantics, loud. _What I like about you._ Gabe glances at him. Blond hair wet underneath white, blue, burgundy helmet.

His eyes are still blue in the harsh lights of the rink.

Tyson wakes up. He opens his eyes. Gabe presses into him, body in a hard line: sinew, skin, bone. Pliant, here. Now. The sheets are warm.

 

9.

 

“Why are you shaking?”

“I don't know. I think I’m happy.”

 

10.

 

Tyson is picking at the hem of his winter coat - loose, red thread, nylon rough on his index, middle fingers. Gabe’s shoulder is brushing his. Every movement like sparks shooting through his skin, supercharging his blood.

“You know,” Gabe says. _The only other person I knew that could do this was Nuge._ He makes the shapes with his lips, mouths along as Gabe says what they’ve both been thinking. Or maybe it’s just Gabe.

“This is a lot,” Tyson shrugs. He watches Gabe open his mouth, close it. He knows what he wants to say.

 

11.

 

He wakes up, and thinks of bright blue eyes.

 

-


End file.
